CHAPTER 476: VEYRATH (2)

He drew his sword across his chest, and the shadow etched into its edge awakened. Black flame spiraled outward, weaving with gold until the two became one, a luminous dusk burning in the air. He swung.

The blade didn’t strike Veyrath; it tore open the air itself. Mana warped, pressure reversed, and the demi-god’s probing current met resistance for the first time. The resulting clash didn’t explode outward, it collapsed inward, forming a vacuum of silence that swallowed sound.

Veyrath raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You bend domains already. Impressive... for something that still breathes."

His hand extended, open palm facing Lindarion. From his fingertips bled threads of divine energy, faint, almost invisible, until they touched air. Then they bloomed, twisting into radiant sigils that wrapped around the young prince like a cage.

Each sigil pulsed with a different element: one of light, one of shadow, one of life, and one of death. They converged slowly, humming like a thousand unseen voices whispering in unison.

"Your power is still... unfinished," Veyrath said softly. "Unrefined. A blade yet untempered. Tell me, heir of Eldorath, what do you believe strength is?"

Lindarion’s reply came through clenched breath. "Control."

Veyrath’s eyes gleamed. "Ah, the Tree’s lesson. But control without understanding... is simply a prettier form of fear."

The sigils tightened, pressing against Lindarion’s mana field. His system screamed.

[Containment Detected: Divine-grade Construct.]

[Warning: Soul integrity stress level approaching threshold.]

The light around Lindarion fractured, his aura fluctuating in golden shards. But he didn’t yield. His core spun faster, and the fragments began to converge instead of scatter. His control sharpened. The sigils shifted color, from gold to white, from white to shadowed crimson, until the cage became transparent.

He stepped through it.

The demi-god’s expression changed, surprise, faint but visible. "Interesting."

Lindarion lowered his blade. "You said this was truth. Then look closer."

He raised his free hand. For a moment, silence blanketed the vault. Then golden streams of mana emerged, not from him, but from the air, from the roots of the World Tree still resonating far above. They gathered, weaving into a single luminous sphere at his palm.

The sphere pulsed once. Twice. And then it became a heartbeat.

Veyrath stared at it with an unreadable expression. "You channel the Tree through will alone. The last one who managed that burned his body to ash."

"I’m not him."

"No," Veyrath murmured, stepping forward, "you are not."

He reached out, faster than sight, claw tracing the air beside Lindarion’s face. It didn’t touch him, but the residual energy that followed tore a thin gash across his cheek. A single drop of blood fell, gleaming gold as it hit the black stone below.

The demi-god’s eyes flicked down to it. "Golden blood. Hmph. A convergence of divine and mortal... fascinating."

Ashwing swooped down, hissing. "You touch him again, snake, and I’ll—"

"Quiet, hatchling," Veyrath said absently. The weight of his voice alone pushed Ashwing to the ground, his wings flattening. "This is between us."

Lindarion’s tone turned sharp. "He’s with me."

The demi-god’s golden pupils contracted, and for a heartbeat, the pressure vanished. Then, softly, almost like an apology, he said, "Then I will not harm what belongs to your path."

He stepped back. The sigils faded. The vault quieted, save for the steady pulse of divine energy that still lingered between them.

"You are strong," Veyrath said finally, voice returning to calm. "But strength alone will not save you. Power such as yours consumes everything if left to hunger too long."

He studied the blood on the ground again, then flicked his claw. The drop evaporated into smoke. "When next you draw from that Tree, remember, roots feed as much as they bind. The deeper you drink, the more the world will demand from you."

The vault held its breath. The last shimmer of divine light faded into the dark veins of the obsidian floor, leaving only the lingering hum of raw power. Lindarion’s blade lowered fully now, its twin flames, shadow and gold, receding until the metal gleamed like calm water. The silence that followed was heavy, sacred.

Ashwing stood slowly, shaking off the invisible weight that had pressed him to the stone. His scales flared a dull silver-blue, his voice strained. "You’ve got a strange way of saying ’hello,’ snake-man."

Veyrath didn’t look at him. His gaze lingered on Lindarion as though trying to see through him, to the marrow, the core, the soul. "There was one before you," he said quietly. "A prince of the high bloodlines. He, too, stood in this place and claimed control."

Lindarion’s golden eyes flickered. "And what happened to him?"

The demi-god’s mouth curved faintly. "He mistook control for balance. The Tree gave him power... and he became a storm that even gods feared."

The words fell like lead. Lindarion’s pulse steadied, but deep within, something tugged, a memory not his own, echoes of screams carried by wind through ages. His system vibrated.

[Resonance Detected: World Tree Memory Fragments—Access Restricted.]

[User Warning: Emotional echo interference at 14%. Recommend suppression.]

He exhaled slowly, pushing the tremor down until it vanished. "I’m not here to repeat history," he said. "Only to break its chains."

Veyrath’s eyes narrowed slightly, their molten hue deepening. "A noble lie. You think you wield the Tree’s blessing, yet it is the Tree that wields you."

Ashwing bristled, flapping his wings with a hiss. "Watch your tongue, old serpent. You’re lucky he hasn’t already turned you into glittering dust."

For the first time, the faintest hint of amusement crossed Veyrath’s sharp features. "You have spirit, little dragonling. Tell me, do you even comprehend what sits at your master’s core?"

Ashwing looked between them, uncertain. "A really bad temper, sometimes?"

Lindarion almost smiled. Almost. "You speak as if you’ve seen it before," he said, ignoring Ashwing’s attempt at humor.

"I have," Veyrath said simply. "Long before your kind learned to whisper the name of flame. I watched it bloom, I watched it rot, and I watched it return again and again, each time within a different vessel."

The vault dimmed. The air warped slightly, mirage-like, and for an instant Lindarion saw another figure standing where Veyrath was, someone wearing his face, his white hair, his golden eyes, but older, sadder. Then it was gone.

The demi-god stepped closer, voice lowering to a tone that carried a strange, dangerous softness. "Do you truly think your awakening was chance? The Tree does not gamble, prince. It harvests."

The word hit like a blade. "Harvests?"

Veyrath gestured, and for the first time, the light of the runes shifted from white to crimson. The walls came alive with images, ghostly scenes flickering like dying embers.

A vast forest burning. Silver rivers turned black. The World Tree itself towering, its leaves shedding like dying stars. And beneath it... rows upon rows of figures kneeling in prayer, their forms dissolving into light that flowed upward into its roots.

"The Tree feeds," Veyrath said, his tone neither cruel nor kind. "It takes from those who call upon it. The more you draw, the more it binds you. Until nothing remains but a memory wearing your name."

Ashwing’s voice was a whisper. "You’re lying."

"Am I?" The serpent’s golden eyes flared faintly. "Or are you simply too young to see the shape of truth?"